


A Man of Two Souls

by NotManTheLessButNatureMore



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, PTSD, Trauma, but it's not entirely his fault this time, cormoran is a disaster, robin to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-23 21:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16167440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotManTheLessButNatureMore/pseuds/NotManTheLessButNatureMore
Summary: “There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.” Mary Shelley, FrankensteinA cricket bat to the face isn't exactly a good way to start the day.(It's been 84 years but I finally wrote an actual summary.... that is one sentence long. Thankfully my writing is (hopefully) much better than that.)





	1. A blow is a mantle for change

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for a bit of PTSD (in relation to Strike's amputation). Also, I had NO IDEA how to summarise this so that's why the summary is non-existent :/

_One day you'll feel like that about somebody_

 

"Cormoran? Cormoran!"

 

_That... damn alarm... must have. Robin?_

 

"Cormoran? I don't know, I can't..."

 

_My baby boy._

 

"Ok. Ok. How far away..."

 

He was rolling over. _Right, you’re late, time to get up. Robin is..._

 

"Cormoran? I think he's..."

 

Robin was in his room, her voice was too close for her to be poking her heard around the door like she usually did when he'd slept too late. _Why was she...?!_ Suddenly he felt someone move his prosthetic. On the rare occasions it happened, he always found it disconcerting to know someone was holding his 'ankle' simply because he could feel the movement in his stump. During some of his physiotherapy appointments he had concentrated hard enough to imagine the feeling of fingers floating across the ghost of his ankle.

 

His prosthetic twisted as his body rolled over more and he felt his knee come to rest on the floor. _The floor?_ He wondered why was he on the floor and why he hadn't taken off his prosthetic last night.

 

 _Fuck_. He only ever did that when he got really drunk. Drunk enough to collapse with his back against the wall for the night. And now Robin had found him like that. _Fuck!_ Maybe he could just keep his eyes closed and she'd go down to the office to make tea and forget everything she'd seen.

 

"Cormoran, please. Come on... just..."

 

His head felt clouded, dim, and he suddenly realised that a high pitched ringing in one of his ears kept interrupting Robin's voice. The socket of his prosthetic started digging into the side of his leg but his grunt was muffled by something think in his mouth, thick and metallic.

 

"Shit, Cormoran?" She was having a conversation with someone now, he could make sense of more and more as he focused on her words. He couldn't hear their response but he felt fingers on his lips and suddenly his jaw and mouth was on fire and he flinched away from her touch.

 

"Cormoran? It's Robin, can you hear me?" Her voice was shaky, he noticed, and as his eyelids peeled back he saw a fuzzy grey figure above him framed by the light of the morning sun coming in through the window. _Fuck, what happened?_

 

"Oh, thank god. It's just me, you're alright." There was a cold hand on his face and when he opened his eyes again Robin's pale face was inches from his. She smiled, but it wasn't as bright as usual and her cheeks were wet. Her face blurred in and out of focus like his head had a dodgy connection.

 

"Hey." Her hair had spilled to one side and brushed against the floor. He realised he was lying on his side and she was on her knees beside him, one hand on his shoulder and the other stroking his face. There was a phone on the floor in front of them and the bright green screen told him someone was on the other end. A dull voice, strong but with a slight lilt, came from Robin's phone and he felt the hand leave his face. She picked up the phone but her eyes never left his.

 

"He's awake but his eyes aren't focussing properly. No, I don't think so. No, not yet." Strike felt like his body had only just remembered it was in the room as pains, sharp and throbbing, became known. He distantly heard short gasps and realised he was the source. He opened his mouth to try to spit out whatever was congealed in his mouth, dignity be damned, and pain shot through his jaw and he saw stars.

 

Robin shifted the phone to her shoulder and grabbed his face with both hands as blood dripped from his mouth to the floor. Her fingers were parting his lips and Strike jerked his head back to escape her touch.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Robin face brightened slightly and Strike groaned as the thudding Behring his eyes intensified.

 

"R'bin?" Talking, if he could call it that, was painful. The word bounced sharply off his teeth, drilled into his jaw and spread a fire through his face that crawled up and across his forehead.

 

"Yeah, it's me. It's me. Are you okay? Well obviously not but-" He could tell she was overwhelmed and wanted to tell her that he was fine and she could leave, he'd be fine once his head stopped trying to separate itself from his body.

 

"Rob'n." He moved his hand across the floor towards her knee and tried to take everything in.

 

His leg hurt but no more than usual, although his position on the floor wasn't helping. His mouth was killing him and with a groan he predicted that his jaw would be wired shut soon enough. His chest was sore and his ribs and back ached but it was a dull throb and felt more like a result from a night lying on the floor. He could feel the slight sting of reopening cuts when he winced. He hadn't moved his head yet but had begun to breath deeply in preparation for the nausea and dizziness that would hit when he did.

 

_Time to wake up darling._

 

"'M 'kay." He pulled his right arm from underneath his body and attempted to make his way from the floor. Everything lurched to the left and he felt like Robin's hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him from rolling towards the door. He swallowed a cough as the blood in his mouth trickled down his throat.

 

"No, Cormoran you need to stay still."

 

"'M 'righ" Shit, it really hurt to talk and Strike briefly wondered if Nick would ever let him live down the fact that he'd clearly broken his entire face by falling over drunk. He pulled himself up, despite Robin's attempt to hold him down, and found there was another wall behind him he could lean against. _Another wall? In the middle of his flat?_ He looked past Robin and saw the frosted glass of the office door.

 

"Does your head hurt? I mean, it looks like it should for the next hundred years but..." she trailed off and gave him the same smile she had when she told him the temp agency was strict on refunds. He thought about responding, reassuring her, but the pain mixed with the need to get the blood out of his mouth was more pressing. He was strangely glad she had seen that leg sent by Laing because surely she wouldn't lose her breakfast over a little blood after that.

 

Strike leaned forward and opened his mouth. Blood started dripping to the floor and he reassured himself that his organs all felt fine and surely there'd be more pain if he'd ruptured something and was quietly bleeding to death in front of his partner. Robin's hand moved to his chin and he felt something soft pushed against his mouth, he breathed in the scent of fresh linen.

 

"You c'ry han'ch'fs?" He raised an eyebrow and she smiled. His partner was sat on the ground with his blood and saliva running down her hands and instead of being repulsed she was smiling.

 

"Well it's only a matter of time before I have to clean up another one of your messes, isn't it?"

 

"Kick a m'n when 'es 'own" The words were slurred and slow to come out and he saw Robin's smile falter. The world felt slightly less fuzzy now that he was sitting up but his stomach was starting to twist itself into knots.

 

"I knew he was dangerous, it's got to have been Mr Doherty's assistant. He knew we were suspicious of his..." Robin trailed off as she notices Strike getting decidedly more pale.

 

"Are you alright?"

 

"B' s'ck" Robin was up in an instant and grabbing the rubbish bin beside her desk. She held it under his chin while he vomited, holding the back of his head with her free hand and stroking gentle circles with her thumb. Tears sprang from his eyes and suddenly passing out was a real worry. The left side of his jaw felt like it was going to unhinge itself any second and a spike of pain burrowed deep into his head.

 

Robin cringed as she watched the pain play across Strike's face. The whole left side of his face, from his jaw to his temple, was red and the beginnings of what would no doubt be an impressive bruise were already forming. There were various cuts scattered across his face, all following the direction she assumed the bat had swung, some deeper than others. She couldn’t stop her brain from replaying the scene she had walked into this morning.

 

The door was unlocked, not unusual, but as she stepped forward into the room her foot kicked something and a cricket bat slid a few feet across the floor before coming to rest against Strike’s outstretched arm. Robin felt all of her instincts abandon her as she froze. Strike, whom she had waved goodbye to in the pub the night before as he finished his pint, was now lying on the floor with several lines of blood creating arteries and rivers across his cheek and forehead. She shook herself and tried to focus on the present moment and not the cold block of concrete that had fallen from her chest to her stomach as she reached out with shaking hands to check if he was still alive.

 

Finished for now, Strike leaned his head back against the desk behind him and shut his eyes with no intention of ever moving again. His jaw was on fire and he felt a prickling sensation running up and down his face and now noticed that his chin and lower lip felt numb. The ringing in his left ear had subsided slightly but was still there and only added to the feeling of disconnection that was slowly creeping around him.

 

"That must be the ambulance. I'll be right back, stay here okay?" He watched Robin disappear through the frosted office door. The room fell silent and Strike put a hand to his head. Everything was still and as he dragged his eyes around the room he realised that it all took just a second too long to catch up with his brain, there was a blur trailing behind everything he tried to focus on.

 

He blinked and suddenly three faces were staring at him. Two paramedics were kneeling in front of him and pulling various paraphernalia out of their bags while Robin hovered behind.

 

"Cormoran, my name is Andy and this is Ozzie. Do you remember what happened?"

 

Strike mumbled a negative, both because he didn't have the energy to try and recount his suspicions and because he wasn't quite sure he could fill in the blanks just yet.

 

"Do you have any pain anywhere apart from your jaw and head?” Strike slowly blinked and hoped it would be understood as a no. Andy had a hand on either side of Strike's face checking his pupils while Ozzie pulled a yellow box with a long tube connected to it from his equipment bag.

 

"We're just going to get rid of some of that blood in your mouth, okay Cormoran?"

 

Strike mumbled an agreement and Andy gently opened his mouth a slither and placed the tube inside. Robin was leaning forward now watching intently. Post-rugby match trips to the hospital with her brothers came flooding back.

 

"Is it his jaw? Is it broken?" Strike now noticed the blood that had stained the sleeves of Robin's shirt and he made a mental note to stop ending up in situations that resulted in him having to buy his partner new clothes.

 

"Looks that way but they'll want to do some scans at the hospital to confirm. Is he allergic to anything or taking any medication?"

 

"'E righ' 'ere" Strike tried to respond but it sounded like nonsense masked by the suction pump.

 

"No allergies that I know of and he takes painkillers for his leg. He lost it when he was serving in Afghanistan." Strike looked up at Robin but she avoided his eyes and grabbed his painkillers off the counter to give to Ozzie. _When had she become someone that could list his medical history and hold his hand as he vomited?_

 

"Well that hopefully explains the amount of blood, blood thinners and a head injury make a messy couple. Now, you've got a fair amount of swelling around your jaw and down towards your neck so I need you to tell me if you're having any trouble breathing at all?"

 

Strike's mind suddenly flashed back to a medical truck in the desert and a medic telling his morphine soaked brain to take slow deep breaths while he wrapped him in a foil blanket. He tried to tell him to fuck off but his voice was hoarse from screaming and he was shaking too much to get anything past his teeth.

 

"Cormoran?" Robin was holding his hand again, _when had she sat down on the ground?_

 

"No.”

 

"Well that's good news then. Have you taken any painkillers in the last four hours?" Strike shook his head and decided not to try that again as Andy swam from side to side in front of him as he inserted a cannula into the back of Strike’s hand.

 

"Good. I'm going to get you to breathe in some gas through this tube just to help with the pain. I don't think we'll chance painkillers just yet until we get that head injury looked at because I suspect, my friend, that you have quite the concussion."

 

 _Concussion, fantastic_. He'd had a few in his life and each one was less fun than the last. His last being what he suspected to be a mild one, but was never confirmed, when Charlotte threw a Buddha statue at the back of his head on their anniversary.

 

The suction tube was removed and Andy gently placed a small plastic pipe between his teeth. Strike's left hand was wrapped around it and just as he realised how much of an effort it was to hold it up Robin's hand appeared under his elbow, gently cradling it and taking the weight.

 

"Don't try to bite down on it, just take some deep breaths and you'll be feeling better before you know it. Now, we've just got to wrap your head up like a mummy so if your..."

 

"Uh, partner. Work partner, we work together." Robin blushed and wondered why she didn't just say friend.

 

"If you'd like to grab his phone, wallet and ID and maybe a change of clothes if he has any here, we can rock and roll soon." At Andy's words Ozzie stood up and moved towards the door.

 

"I'll get the stretcher."

 

"No." Strike suddenly decided he had an aversion to them. He never got off a stretcher with everything still intact. He pulled his good leg up and made a move to rise.

 

"No you don't." Andy had a tight grip on his free arm.

 

"I don't know if you've seen the stairs out there but I'd much rather you didn't end up in a heap at the bottom and add to my to-do list." Strike felt exhaustion creep into the edges of his vision and would have laughed at his weak attempts to regain control if he had the energy. Instead he watched Andy as he hooked a long bandage under his chin and brought it up over the top of his head and then wrapped it once more around towards the back of his head to keep it in place. He took some deep breaths as he felt his jaw shift and settle and the room became more saturated. The sparse areas of color in the office were suddenly heightened and the ringing in his ears intensified.

 

His eyes drifted to Robin as he tried to imagine how ridiculous he must look and he thought he saw his dignity float out the window as her smile widened, as if to say _you look like an idiot_.

 

He realised then that at some point his hand had drifted to the floor and she was now holding the gas tube to his mouth. His mind flashed to Charlotte sitting in a corner of one of the hospital’s therapy rooms with a magazine while he practiced sitting down and standing up again using just the one leg. His brow furrowed as he realized that no feelings of weakness or shame or embarrassment came when Robin looked at him in this state.

 

Ozzie was back and the stretcher was laid out beside him on the floor. Andy's muffled voice was explaining something to him and then hands were lifting him and the room titled on its axis. He felt straps tightened across his chest and thighs and the gas tube removed from his mouth and left beside his head on the stretcher. He was thankful Andy hadn't let him attempt the stairs as everything lurched and swam around the edges of his vision before suddenly settling as a bright light pierced his skull. Strike thought he caught a glimpse of Wardle but then his eyes slid shut, a door was slammed and he was rocked gently from side to side.

 

Andy’s face hovered above his, followed by Robin's, then briefly a view of the sky and then a ceiling. Andy appeared one last time and then a doctor and nurse crowded his vision, asking questions and poking and prodding. Their hands relit the fire in his jaw and head and the next few hours passed in a haze. The familiar sight of an X-ray machine hovered above him, he muttered responses to a smiling nurse and then he was inside a tunnel with his head in a cage. Robin appeared again and said something about surgery and Nick and recording the Arsenal game.

 

Another nurse, a surgeon behind a mask, someone telling him to calm down, waking up before realising he'd been asleep and shaking. He always woke shaking after an anaesthetic. Someone pulled a blanket up around him and Strike remembered his jaw. It felt heavy and disconnected, like it shouldn't be there and as he moved his tongue around it was as though he had flossed and forgotten to remove the string. His prosthetic was gone and he briefly hoped they hadn't given it to Robin to mind, _what would she do walking around a hospital with a spare leg_?

 

He fell asleep again listening to a distant murmur of high notes and dreamt of his mother singing to Lucy and him in the bath. What could have been minutes or hours or days passed and Strike heard a chair move beside him and someone sigh. He opened his eyes, not completely sure who to expect, and saw Robin. She looked tired and had a Kit Kat in her hand.

 

"Hi. Uh, I can't stay long, visiting hours ended 10 minutes ago but the nurse said she'd look the other way until the security guard comes back around to check." Robin seemed to be examining his head with her eyes as Strike struggled to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He felt the itchiness of medical tape on the back of his wrist and hand and the side of his cheek and realised the fuzzy feeling and numbness in his jaw was aided by the slow drip of pain relief from an IV. He also realised that he'd be losing a few chest hairs soon as he reached a hand up to scratch the sticky patches that a heart monitor had left behind.

 

"I bought this in the shop downstairs." Robin pulled out a notebook and pen and placed them on the cabinet by his bed.

 

"And I'll bring a change of clothes tomorrow, the doctor said they'd keep you overnight and see how things go tomorrow. Someone will need to keep an eye on you for a day or two when you go home, because of your concussion." _Your concussion_ , he thought, as if it was something he had gladly purchased.

 

"Wardle was here earlier, he's going to come back to talk to you. And I called Nick, he’s at work but said he’d try and sneak in later. Ilsa will be here in the morning, she’s going to give me a lift back here...” Strike struggled to keep up with Robin’s nervous ramblings but what he did hear floated through his muddled mind and settled pleasantly somewhere safe. In his adult life, minus Charlotte and his other romantic endeavors, he had surrounded himself with people he could depend on. It was important to him after having so many people stroll into his early life under false pretenses and stroll out with false promises. If he’d had the energy his lips would have betrayed him with a smile.

 

“Ilsa was wondering if she should call your uncle Ted but we thought it best not.She said your Aunt Joan would only end up on the next train to London if she found out and couldn’t talk to you herself to make sure you were okay.” Strike silently thanked Ilsa as he thought back to how guilty he felt seeing the worry on his Aunt’s face for weeks and months after he lost his leg.

 

“And I’m sure you’d rather not have Lucy arrive in a panic, thinking the worse and with mascara streaming down her face.”

 

Somehow Robin had slotted herself in amongst those he knew he could rely on. He wondered how she knew so much of what was in his head. Did it happen slowly, over pub lunches and late nights, or did it happen all at once? He suddenly worried about how much she knew.

 

“I can call them in the morning for you if you’d like?”

 

He pulled himself up in the bed and she pulled his pillow up from where it was becoming trapped behind his back. She thought back to the ambulance ride and how pale he looked and Andy reassuring her that he'd be fine. Then he was gone and trying to get the woman at the admittance desk to tell her anything was like getting blood from a stone. Andy reappeared carrying his bag and told her what he'd heard from the doctors before he left. Broken jaw, to be confirmed by X-rays, concussion, although not as bad as he'd feared, some fairly deep bruising to his chest and left arm, but nothing broken, and various cuts and scrapes to his face, one of which was being stitched as Andy left.

 

Robin then found herself on the phone with Shanker and wondering what the suspicious sounds were in the background. He was watching The Godfather, he'd promised her. A nurse had come and told her where she could wait, but warned her that she really should go home as there was no guarantee she'd see Cormoran before his surgery. The nurse had handed her a clipboard and asked her to answer as many questions as she could, and for some reason her fingers had dialled Shanker's number.

 

"Just stick down that he's been to every country with a desert."

 

"Shanker, that's not how-"

 

"Well it'll answer half the questions for you."

 

"You're no help, you know that?"

 

"I told you he's had his appendix out didn't I?"

 

"You answered one question."

 

"I gave you his middle name."

 

"I knew that." Robin smiled at the old lady watching her in amusement.

 

"How'd you know that? Bunsen doesn't tell anyone that."

 

"I saw his passport-"

 

"Forging identities now Robin?"

 

"Shanker! Please, can we just..."

 

"Alright Robin, blimey, just trying to lighten the mood." She could tell that the words had fought their way past a grin.

 

"Has he had a blood transfusion?" She had almost ticked the box automatically but stopped herself. Assuming anything when it was to do with his leg or his time in the army always felt uncomfortably invasive. He didn’t often share that part of his life with her, instead he kept it locked away behind closed doors and assuming anything felt like gaining unwanted entry through a side window.

 

"Yeah, when he lost his leg. Nick and Ilsa would know more about that though. I didn't want... I... well, I just told him about all the football he'd missed when I went to see him. We didn't talk about the other stuff." Robin suddenly thought how strange it would be for all the corners of Strike's life to come together. He had friends from such different walks of life that she'd never imagined they actually knew each other.

 

"They're taking him for surgery. Or he's already in there, I don't know, they won't really tell me because I'm not family."

 

"What kind of surgery?" Shanker's voice was quieter and Robin felt a rush of warmth at his concern.

 

"To fix his jaw. I don't know what they'll do exactly but they said they'd have to wire his jaw shut." Robin visibly jerked in surprise as Shanker's laugh bellowed down through the phone.

 

"He's gonna hate that. Oh, this will be bloody brilliant."

 

"Shanker!"

 

"I'll be 'round in the morning."

 

She had hung up as Shanker started to plan conversation topics that would rile Cormoran. She tried to hide her smile from Cormoran as she imagined what Shanker's morning visit would bring. He rubbed his eyes and then, as his hand drifted down to his jaw, she grabbed his wrist.

 

"Don't. You'll just hurt yourself." He dipped his head and she swallowed her laughter at the annoyed look he gave her only to fail miserably when he attempted to talk.

 

"Awht 'id 'hey who ooh 'i 'aw?" Strike's eyebrows rose as his brain caught up with how distorted his speech was and Robin let go of his wrist to cover her mouth. She apologised for laughing

 

He could look so young sometimes, she thought. All gruff with a metal exterior and then his expression would shift briefly and she'd try, and fail, to imagine how he looked when he was just a boy, until the smell of him, of cigarette smoke and musk, would gust back into the room and the world would right itself.

 

"They had to wire your jaw shut. But don't worry, they said your speech won't stay this bad, it's just because your jaw is still numb from surgery."

 

He looked at her warily but her smile was soft and he noticed the collection of things on his bedside table. Bottles of water and orange juice, three snack pots of jelly, various newspapers, but none that came with a celebrity supplement he noticed, and two pots of yoghurt. One of which had clearly been eaten.

 

"Sorry, I missed lunch and there were no good sandwiches left in the canteen."

 

"Oo 'ush 'un-in."

 

"Un-in? Oh, onion?"

 

He nodded, trying to ignore the slight sway of his vision as he did so. She smiled warmly, stuffed the rest of her Kit Kat in her mouth and did her best broken-jawed-Strike impression.

 

"Yeah, too 'uch 'un-in."

 

He huffed out a breathe that he hoped passed weakly for a laugh and closed his eyes. A brief thought in the back of his mind tried to command him to stay awake but if the various anaesthetics he'd had in his life had taught him anything it was that he'd be nodding off at random intervals for the next few hours.

 

As she watched him drift off she remembered the bland corporate job that she turned down shortly after she started working for him. If she'd taken it they would have never spoken again. There was something there, even then, but not the kind of something that would make them meet for coffee every once in a while or exchange life updates via email. It was all or nothing even then, Robin thought. A sadness crept in as she imagined not seeing him and then bumping into him in the street years later, asking awkwardly how he was and what case he was working on. Would he look tired, as he always did? Or would he look different, and would she feel a vague sense of jealousy at having missed the events in his life that had produced such a change?


	2. Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well daaaamn, look at me having this partially complete but sitting on my laptop for months and then all of a sudden publishing 2 chapters in one day. Can't promise the next chapter will be so prompt though :/

 

_My baby boy._

 

“Oggy?”

 

_It’ll be alright darling, you’ll see._

 

He cried in front of Shanker.

 

He hadn't expected him to visit. They'd got drunk in some dingy pub a few nights before Strike left for Afghanistan and had said their usual goodbyes. _Go kill some terrorists Bunsen,_ Shanker had shouted at him across the street as they went their separate ways, with Strike smiling at the group of women outside the kebab shop giving him a mix of suspicious and confused glances.

 

He was wheeled back to his room after his millionth scan by a porter and a tired nurse who informed him that he was nil-by-mouth for the rest of the evening and until his surgery the following day. It wasn’t considered major surgery, just some more repair work to the inflamed skin of his stump, so he was ninth in line and therefore probably wouldn’t be eating again until the following night. They rounded the corner and as the they began to navigate the doorway he turned to look over his shoulder and argue the case for even half a slice of toast but a hunched figure caught his eye.

 

Shanker was sitting in the squeaky chair usually by his bed and was rifling through his bedside cabinet. Visiting hours were over but after much debate his nurse allowed Shanker to stay on the condition that he would leave before the doctors made their last rounds for the night. Shanker examined the wall as the nurse got Strike settled, moving various drainage tubes around and putting a foam block under what remained of his leg to elevate it and try and bring down some of the swelling. He looked away as she did so.

 

The nurse left, Shanker turned around and Strike felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. Hard as nails, tough as boots and suddenly Shanker's face looked soft. He had only ever looked like that when he was looking at Leda.

 

She always felt a little bit alive when Shanker was around, probably because he talked about her often and never with pity. It was as if she was just in the next room. It felt like she was from the recent past and the years without her weren't looming larger over the years he'd had with her as each day passed.

 

He wondered how his mother would have reacted if she were still alive. Would she have rushed to the hospital and been there waiting for him when they brought him home? Would she have cried, like Lucy, or would she have been practical, like Ilsa? The nights in hospital and the rehab clinic were long but his questions were never answered.

 

He held his breath and waited, not wanting Shanker to let him down. A long exhale was followed by a soft _Bunsen_ and then, with dry eyes, Shanker sat down on the bed right where the rest of his leg should have been and started to tell him a vague story that probably shouldn't have been told in such close proximity to members of the military. Strike laughed for the first time in a while and cringed at the legless jokes Shanker had thought of on the drive up. 

 

It came softly and swiftly and suddenly there were silent tears filling his eyes and threatening to spill down onto his t-shirt. He cried in front of Shanker because he knew he wouldn't try to comfort him. He wouldn't hug him or call the nurse or tell him that he was strong and everything would be alright. He wouldn't worry that this was a sign of depression or come back with pamphlets from different veteran support groups he could join. He'd keep his eyes on the floor and let Strike cry and then continue on with his story about trying to sabotage the reputation of a local loan shark whose clients he wanted. Because he was still just Bunsen to him. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

Nick and Ilsa had been the first to visit him. They were his emergency contacts because they were practical and knew him longer than anyone, family excluded. He’d been transferred from the hospital in Germany a week early which meant Lucy hadn’t returned from Cornwall in time. She had been distant on the phone when he queried why she was visiting aunt Joan and uncle Ted that time of year.

 

He felt nervous when Ilsa called to say they were stuck in traffic but they'd be there soon. They would be the first to see him, to see what was gone and to tell the others what was left.

 

They burst through the door into his room, Nick carrying a bag that he hoped contained some of his clothes and books, and Ilsa surged straight over and hugged him tightly. She felt soft and warm and the opposite of everything he’d experienced in the past month. She held his face in her hands and a look passed across her face that Strike couldn't quite decipher before Nick pushed past her for his turn.

 

They did the awkward dance of looking from the empty space in the bed to the medication hanging from the pole by his head to the IV line in his arm to the rosy cheeks clinging on as the fever from his infection finally started to recede.

 

And then Nick launched into his very serious and researched plan of how he could take up a sport and make it to the Paralympics. Nick favoured football as he’d enjoy cheering him on at a football match much more than at a game of badminton, Strike was gently informed. He launched into a retelling of various Paralympian stories but soon admitted defeat when he noticed Strike and Ilsa were exchanging amused glances and looking at him as if he'd lost his mind on the car journey over.

 

“Is this what you’ve been doing sitting up on your laptop every night?” Ilsa had asked.

 

“Well… yeah. Sounds a bit silly now that you say it. I mean, when has Oggy ever shown Olympic talent before now? No offence mate.” Nick admitted as his shoulders slumped in defeat.

 

“None taken.”

 

“Sometimes I wonder about you.” Ilsa’s arched brow made Strike laugh. He had missed them while he was gone.

 

They didn't stay very long in the end. Strike had fought the near constant pull of sleep that the morphine was fuelling as long as he could. He heard hushed voices and then felt a soft hand take his and Nick’s voice telling him they’d be back at the weekend. It settled Strike, to hear them talking as if they were sitting at his Aunt Joan's kitchen table while he dozed off. That night he dreamt of St. Mawes.

 

* * *

 

His night was a mixture of jerking awake to the sound of an explosion and the nurses waking him to check he wasn’t falling into a coma any time soon. Somewhere between midnight and sunrise the two had overlapped leaving him apologising awkwardly to a nurse he had almost head butted. She smiled softly and glanced down at his stump and then at his file hanging on the end of the bed. He suddenly wondered if it mentioned anything about PTSD but found he didn’t want to check. He spent the rest of the night and early morning watching the sky morph from an inky blue to a warm red.

 

With his head turned towards the window his mind drifted as he listened to the familiar sounds of a hospital coming to life again. The door opened and he kept his eyes closed, he had become skilled at pretending to sleep around medical personnel in the months after Afghanistan. A tray was left on the table at the bottom of his bed, his breakfast he assumed, but the smell of porridge just served to irritate him as he remembered that his diet would be reminiscent of an infant’s for the near future. With horror he realised he’d probably have to drink tea and beer through a straw.

 

In silent protest he ignored the tray and turned back towards the window in the hopes of recovering some of the sleep he had lost. The clinks and bangs of daily hospital life dimmed but a deep ache in his jaw stopped him from falling asleep. At some point a nurse had arrived and he felt the stinging pressure of the IV in the back of his hand being flushed, followed by a flood of warmth spreading up his forearm.

 

“Gross.”

 

Strike came awake with a start to find Robin peering at his breakfast tray with a look of disgust. Their eyes met and a smile spread across her face.

 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Although if you really want to be scared have a look at this cement posing as porridge.” She moved up towards the head of his bed and plonked a heavy bag on the chair beside him.

 

“Ilsa is just parking the car. Can you believe visiting hours don’t start until eleven? We’ll only be here five minutes before they kick us out for lunch.” She turned and started to rummage in her bag while Strike shook himself awake and eased himself up into a sitting position. He failed to hold back a groan as his bruises made themselves known.

 

“Well that doesn’t sound great.” Ilsa was standing at the door with a frown on her face. She walked over to his bed and gently grasped his chin in order to survey the damage.

 

“Nick snuck in last night, said he charmed the night nurse but let’s be real she was probably just in the loo. He said you were asleep so he left, you’ll see him later though.”

 

Strike focused on clearing the cobwebs from his mind as Robin started shaking a container around like it was a cocktail ( _god, he hoped_ ) and Ilsa pulled clothes from the bag by his bed. A familiar red jumper appeared.

 

“You w’re in my flat?” His voice was hoarse and muffled but thankfully, thought Strike, not as bad as it had been yesterday.

 

“Well my car has a strict ‘no blood encrusted clothes’ dress code, so I’m afraid we had to.” At the mention of ‘we’ Ilsa pulled a pair of boxers from the bag as Strike looked from her to Robin and hoped his face was bruised enough to hide any blushing cheeks.

 

“Don’t worry I didn’t show Robin your porn stash.” Strike glared at Ilsa.

 

“What? Like you haven’t kept a backup magazine or two in the same place since you were 15. I know all your secrets Corm.”

 

Robin, who had been observing Strike and Ilsa’s sibling-like banter with a smile, stepped forward.

 

“The nurse said you passed all the concussion checks although you have to wait for your surgeon to examine your jaw but then you should be ready to be discharged. You’ll, ah, need to stay with someone though, at least for a few days.” Robin had stumbled over the last sentence. For one awful second Strike imagined being shuttled to Lucy’s house and having Greg grill him on his finances whilst trying to avoid having flying toys hit him in the jaw. Ilsa looked between the two of them and rolled her eyes.

 

“Well obviously you’ll be staying with us Corm. Can’t have you sit up in bed and crack your jaw open again on the ceiling of that flat.”

 

“My flat is’n ‘at small.”

 

“Mm. Anyway, Robin, your knight in shining armour, has agreed to sleep on the couch and you’ll have the spare room like usual.” A spark shot through Strike’s jaw as he remembered that Robin was moving flats yet again and was staying with Nick and Ilsa while she waited for her next lease to begin.

 

With a smile Robin thrust a small jug with a metal straw into Strike’s hand.

 

“I figured the hospital’s liquid diet might be even worse than their usual stuff so I made you a smoothie. It’s got peanut butter and banana and there’s some protein powder mixed in because, well your calorie intake is going to be severely reduced seen as how you’re practically on a baby food diet.” Robin smiled and looked away half embarrassed. Strike felt his cheek twitch and a burning sensation in his jaw as a smile threatened to betray him. He blamed any comparisons his mind thought up between Robin and an angel on his concussion.

 

“I know, I know. Not as grease-filled as you’d like but we can figure out how to purée a kebab later.”

 

She was certainly sent from the gods, Strike thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for reading! And I do appreciate all the kudos and comments :)


	3. A friend in need is a friend indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I did originally plan for this to be a three chapter story but it seems to have a mind of its own and is looking more like a four or five chapter story. I hope you enjoy it and thankfully there are no pureed kebabs being eaten (in this chapter anyway).
> 
> Also, this chapter didn't quite flow as freely as the others in parts, I hope it doesn't show but you can be the judge of that. :)

The journey from hospital bed to car to Nick and Ilsa’s house had consisted of an irritable Strike, thanks in no small part to his surgeon’s manhandling of his jaw, shunning all help and offerings of wheelchairs and consequently nearly falling head first into Ilsa’s car when his balance finally gave out. He had slumped down in the back seat and minus the occasional groan when Ilsa drove over a speed bump or turned a corner he stayed silent. Robin had sat slightly sideways in the front seat to keep an eye on him, not having dared incurred the wrath of a grumpy and injured Strike by suggesting she should sit beside him.

 

He had pulled himself out of the car with a grimace while Robin grabbed their belongings and the bag of medication he’d been given. Ilsa unlocked the door, noting that Nick hadn’t arrived home yet. Strike shuffled slowly into the kitchen and opened the fridge, finding one shelf half full of various bottles containing what looked to be more of Robin’s smoothie. He sighed as somewhere deep inside his chest a warmth spread where he had forbade it to tread.

 

“You’re not having a beer, don’t even think about.” Ilsa called from the hallway.

 

“Wasn’t.” Strike shut the fridge door and made his way to the breakfast bar to sit. His arm and chest had started to throb in solidarity with his jaw.

 

“You know, this does feel like some sort of karma for all the times you took the piss when I had braces.” Ilsa said with a smug smile.

 

“You’re a terr’ble f’end.” Strike glared at her.

 

“A terrible friend that has a bed made for you, ice ready for your jaw and is willing to let Robin loose with my new blender.”

 

“Terr’bly great f’end.” Strike replied, with the best smile he could muster.

 

“Why don’t you take this, go lie down and get some rest.” Robin handed him the aforementioned ice wrapped in a tea towel with a look that wasn’t too dissimilar from a teacher he’d had in school. With a mumbled thanks Strike decided to make his way into the sitting room rather than the fresh bed that was waiting upstairs. Just because his body felt about 90 years old didn’t mean he had to start taking naps in the daytime. He rolled his trouser leg up and started to remove his prosthetic. He had always been comfortable taking his prosthetic off at Nick and Ilsa’s house, it would be odd not to be, he thought, considering they had seen him bed bound and wheelchair bound without one. He pulled the zipper down on his jumper, held the ice as much against his jaw as he could without wincing, closed his eyes and tried to relax his aching body. A while later he heard footsteps padding into the room and the sound of the door shutting quietly. His eyes still closed, he heard a glass being placed on the coffee table in front of him, the ice that had managed to drift down onto his chest was taken from his hand and then he heard nothing at all as he began to doze.

 

* * *

 

Strike came awake with a start as the door into the sitting room swung open.

 

“Ouch Oggy.” Nick said as he threw his coat across the chair opposite the TV. Strike mumbled his agreement.

 

Nick sat beside him and pulled Strike’s face towards him to get a better look at the deep black and purple bruising and cuts that covered his face.

 

“Wa’ch it.” Strike pulled away from him and Nick sat back and kicked his shoes off.

 

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this but I don’t think your chiseled jaw line can be saved.”

 

“Ha ha.”

 

Nick smiled fondly and then passed an extra pillow to Strike as he rearranged himself and rested his aching head on the couch. Nick passed him his medication, in liquid form thankfully, and the glass of water, complete with straw, that had been left by someone earlier. Strike gratefully acceptedit. He downed the sour tasting medication and pulled his jumper off carefully avoiding hitting his face.

 

“Robin’s going to take the couch.”

 

“Mm.” Strike replied, returning the glass of water to the coffee table and closing his eyes. He vaguely thought some ice would be nice now but felt too lazy to get some.

 

“Just you, alone, upstairs, in the quite modest sized bed in the spare room.”

 

Nick’s smirk quickly vanished as Strike turned his head, narrowed his eyes and focused every ounce of energy he had into putting the fear of god into his best friend. Managing to not entirely hide his nervous swallow Nick jumped up and moved towards the door.

 

“I’ll just go grab some beers.”

 

“No beers!” Ilsa called from the kitchen.

 

“Right.” Nick replied as he hastily made his exit only to be replaced by Robin who eyed the empty medication packet and glass of water. She had changed, Strike noted, into soft grey tracksuit bottoms, thick cable knit socks and a jumper. He then realised that he’d be sleeping in her bed, surrounded by her things and although Ilsa had made up a fresh bed for him, he wandered if he would turn over in the night and smell Robin on his pillow.

 

“I can take the couch.” Strike blurted out.

 

“Don’t be silly.”

 

“R’lly.”

 

“You’ve just had surgery-“

 

“I’ve done ‘fore.”

 

“No! Anyway you wouldn’t be able to lie down on it properly-

 

“Yes I-“

 

“-and then you’d probably just wake us all up after breaking your jaw all over again on the coffee table.”

 

Robin’s tone had turned from playful to forceful and Strike eyed her up and down sideways. She was holding a sheet of paper in one hand and had turned her attention to it.

 

“What’s ‘hat?”

 

“Post-operative instructions from the hospital. There’s a list of food that will be easier for you to have and Nick bought most of the stuff on it.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Well we could puree some eggs and toast.” Robin failed at hiding her own grimace.

 

“God, is it poss’ble to throw up like ‘is?”

 

“Yes, although not advisable.” Nick, who had reentered the room, replied.

 

“You can use milk to thin a muffin?”Robin suggested.

 

“Might ruin muffins for me though.” Strike said.

 

“Ilsa’s making a casserole for us, suppose I could throw it in the blender and see what happens. Might just be like drinking gravy.” Nick mused.

 

“There is always the option of having dessert for dinner.” Robin said with a twinkle in her eye that had Strike wondering if his concussion was making him hallucinate.

 

“What?” Strike asked tentatively.

 

“Nick bought some ice cream.”

 

“Oh, right.” Strike’s body relaxed.

 

“So Mr Strike what will it be then?” Robin’s voice did nothing to deter Strike’s thoughts from drifting back towards the bed he’d be using later. He risked a glance towards Nick who, knowing his mate as well as he did, was hiding a smirk of his own.

 

“Ice c’eam.”

 

Robin jumped up from the couch and followed Nick out the door leaving Strike to wonder if the painkillers were affecting his thoughts. He sat forward and a spike of pain in his head made itself known. While massaging his temples, Strike started to feel fidgety and wondered where his phone was but before long Ilsa and Robin came in each carrying a plate, followed by Nick who was carrying his plate and a glass of green liquid.

 

“Sorry, I got mint flavour and then only realised when Ilsa said it that it-“

 

“-looks like snots.” Ilsa supplied.

 

Robin tried to hide a laugh as Strike took the glass from Nick as if it was a carrier of the plague.

 

“Look at the positives-“

 

“‘ich are?”

 

“Forget vegetarian bacon, this’ll do wonders for your diet.” Robin replied trying to hide her smirk.

 

“My f’ends are all such wond’ful comed’ens.”

 

After getting half way through the glass of ice cream Strike’s eyes started to grow heavy and he had long since stopped following the conversation. His jaw was aching and his headache had returned with a vengeance, added to that his bruised chest and arm were reminding him that sitting on a couch for hours on end wasn’t exactly comfortable. With a grunt he sat forward and started to pull on his prosthetic.

 

“Shit Corm, I forgot to grab your crutches from your flat.” Ilsa said with a mouthful of casserole.

 

“S’okay. ‘M just gonna go lie down.”

 

“Are you alright?” Asked Robin, who was already half out of her seat ready to help.

 

“Mm. Just tired an’ sore.” After two attempts Strike made it to standing and hoped his friends hadn’t noticed his wobble towards the door. He trudged up the stairs and gave a sigh of relief as he gingerly lay down on the bed. The dull thrum of cars driving past outside and the muffled sound of the TV and the voices of his friends downstairs lulled him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_Sergeant Strike?_

 

He was in a dark room and then not. Rain lashed against the side of his uncle Ted’s car and then suddenly he could feel the heat of the sun on his face as a bead of sweat rolled down his back. He heard Lucy giggle and a gush of water splashed across his chest. He was in his school uniform and then dressed in camouflage with the familiar weight of a rifle in his hand.

 

_Oh, Stick_

 

Flashes of red blazed across his eyes blinding him until suddenly everything went dark and all he could hear was the distantsound of beeping. His body felt light and then extremely heavy, like lead that was threatening to suffocate him. He was holding onto a rail on either side of him, eyes narrowed only onto the speckled grey floor in front of him so that he couldn’t see where he was. His sweaty hands threatened to slip and then suddenly he was lying on a beach. There was sand all around him but no sign of the sea and a creeping feeling began to crawl up his spine. He could sense there was someone beside him but he couldn’t turn his head to check. A gust of wind came and his mouth was full of sand. He tried to spit it out and then with a loud bang he felt himself fall through the sand and suddenly he was at the side of a stage partially obscured by a heavy red curtain.

 

_My baby boy_

 

A soft hand took his but there was something unfamiliar about it, and then just as quickly it was ripped away. He was then crouched over covering his ears. A tall dark figure was looming over him, bending over inch by inch until it was almost completely contorted into an unnatural shape. He covered his eyes with his hands and heard the scratching of something against a mic echo across the speakers.

 

_Oggy?_

 

The lights flashed on and a spike of pain pierced through Strike’s head. The dark figure had vanished only to be replaced by Nick staring at him with his hands outstretched. With a look of bewilderment on his face Strike looked around the room and saw that he was halfway out of the bed and the sheets were thrown across the floor.

 

“Oggy?” Nick stayed still, hands outstretched and Strike spotted Ilsa partially hidden behind the door. _Fuck!_

 

Strike heaved in a breath, feeling like his chest was in a vice. He leaned forward and started to pull the bed sheets back onto the bed.

 

“Stop Corm, we’ll do that.” Ilsa moved quietly into the room and Strike only then noticed broken glass along the side of the bed. _Fuck!_

 

His body had taken a moment to catch up with him but as it did his breathing came in short sharp gasps. His jaw felt like there were tiny ants crawling along it stinging him as they went. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the image of an army truck flash across the wall behind Ilsa and he slammed his eyes shut. The pain only intensified and tears sprang from his eyes and his breathing quickened.

 

“Oggy, calm down mate it’s alright.” A hand was on his back and Strike found himself trying to repeat a mantra he hadn’t had to use in years. _It’s not happening, it’s… fuck… you’re safe… it’s not…. you’re not there. You’re not there, it’s happening… it’s not happening again… you’re fucking safe, you’re safe. You’re not there, it’s not happening again, you’re safe._

 

“Corm?”

 

_You’re not there, it’s not happening again, you’re safe. You’re not there, it’s not happening again, you’re safe._

 

The words jumbled together in Strike’s head as he felt Nick’s hand move slowly up and down his back and Strike attempted to match his breathing to the pace Nick had set. The moment stretched on until he felt the bed shift slightly and the abandoned duvet was pulled across his legs. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and saw Ilsa’s forced smile. She was sitting at the bottom of the bed while Nick perched awkwardly beside him.

 

“We heard… we didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Ilsa’s eyes glanced towards Nick. _Too late for that,_ Strike thought.

 

“Did Robin…” Strike’s voice trailed off.

 

“Sound asleep mate.” Nick lied and when Strike looked away Ilsa’s eyes quickly flashed to the door and towards the stairs where she knew Robin was sat.

 

“I’ll just go and get a dust pan and brush and a cloth to clean this up.” Ilsa pulled the door closed behind her and padded down the stairs puling Robin by the arm along with her.

 

“Is he alright?” Robin whispered when they reached the kitchen. Ilsa didn’t switch the light on, instead using the light of the moon through the glass patio doors to find her way around the cupboard. For this Robin was thankful.

 

“He’ll be fine. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Ilsa’s voice has a forced sing-song edge to it but Robin had heard how she’d sounded when Nick and her had stood outside Strike’s room.

 

“Should I… should we-“ Robin struggled and Ilsa came over to her, took both of her hands in hers and said;

 

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way Robin but I don’t think he’d appreciate you being with him right now.” Ilsa’s words cut deep into Robin’s chest in a way she hadn’t expected them to, but the warmth in Ilsa’s eyes was genuine.

 

“I just-“

 

I know but…” Ilsa struggled and Robin imagined the words going around Ilsa’s mind. _But this is Corm, Robin. This is our domain. We’ve seen this before. You weren’t here when…_

 

“Okay.” Robin replied, thankful that her voice hadn’t betrayed her. She went back into the dark sitting room, pulled the blankets around her and sat up staring at the blank TV screen while trying not to think of the fear she had heard in the mumbled shouting that had woken them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely and thoughtful comments I've gotten so far, they do all mean a lot (as well as the kudos).


	4. The Night Moves You

The minutes seemed to stretch on, neither man making a move and save for Strike’s heavy breathing there was not a sound from outside or below. Strike longed for Denmark street and it’s constant noise. Nick and Ilsa’s house had always been a safe haven for him, something he was profoundly grateful for. For every turn of bad luck that brought the hulking monster of homelessness from the shadows of his childhood memories he knew that should the worse happen he could turn up on their doorstep at any time and be welcomed in. Now, the room that he had stayed in countless times felt too small and too warm and too bright and too full of Robin’s boxes and bags and everything felt muffled as if the walls were padded.

 

“You didn’t cut yourself on the glass did you?” Nick’s voice was quiet and tentative.

 

“No!”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“It’s alright if you’re-“

 

“D’ you have m’ smokes?” Strike barked. He’d smoked in the hospital car park while he and Robin waited for Ilsa to drive the car around but since then he’d had none and he felt like his lungs didn’t know what to do with this extended period of clean air.

 

“No, I think they’re downstairs in your coat.”

 

“Can you get them?”

 

“Um, well yeah but, you’d have to eh…” Nick looked towards the window awkwardly and Strike cursed their perfect smelling house.

 

“It’s fine.” _I’m fucking gasping_ , he thought.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I’m fine! I’ve jus’ b'oken my fucking jaw, okay. Nothing else. Nothing else is wrong.” Strike could have winced when he heard the words leave his mouth. _Great fucking job, that didn’t sound desperate at all._

 

He knew he was being a bastard, he knew it wasn’t his fault or Nick or Ilsa’s fault or even Robin’s fault but these episodes were still a weakness that wouldn’t bloody well piss off. Just because he had learned to live with it rearing it’s ugly head every now and then didn’t mean he had to stop being angry about it happening.

 

“It’s understandable, you know.”

 

“Nick-“

 

“You ended up in hospital again and that’s where you had your first PTSD episode-“

 

“-Nick.”

 

“It’s… I’m just trying to…” Nick’s voice trailed off. He’d learned about PTSD during medical school, he’d called a friend that was now a psychiatrist after Cormoran had lost his leg and he’d exhausted google searching for coping mechanisms after he’d first sat with him during a dissociation episode. He had all of the knowledge available to hand and yet still felt useless whenever he tried to talk to him about. A few years ago he’d learned that Shanker had got Strike to talk to his uncle Ted, a fellow veteran, about it and Nick had felt the blow as if it had been physical.

 

Nick watched his glazed eyes and wondered if he was in the room with him or lying in a desert in Afghanistan where he couldn’t get to him, couldn’t help him. There were deep black trenches under each eye that matched the left side of his face which was now slightly mottled looking.

 

“Sorry I’m being a basta’d.” Strike titled his head slightly in Nick’s direction.

 

“You don’t have to be ashamed of it happening around us Oggy mate, you know that.”

 

“Yeah. Still hate it though.”

 

“Can’t fault you for that.”

 

Ilsa returned with cleaning supplies in hand, glancing worriedly between the two men.

 

“Safe to come in?”

 

“Course.” Nick replied.

 

“I’ll do ‘at.” Strike said to Ilsa while he looked around for his prosthetic.

 

“Oh stop you, it’ll take me two minutes. Anyway, you need to use that mouth wash the hospital gave you to keep your incision clean. I left it on the shelf in the bathroom.” Ilsa handed him his leg, quickly checking that no glass had fallen inside of it as she did so. Strike eased himself out of bed, attached his leg and made his way gingerly out to the bathroom.

 

A shadow on the stairs caught his eye but reassuringly he knew this one belonged there.

 

“Peeping Tom.”

 

“What?” Came Robin’s startled response.

 

“You, lurking in the shadows wai'ing for me to use the ba’room.”

 

“What? I… oh sod off.”

 

Her disgruntled laugh was music to his ears as she made her way out of the shadows and up the stairs. Strike moved into the bathroom but left the door open.

 

“Wardle call yet? He called to her over his shoulder. She had come to lean against the door frame.

 

“Yes, actually, but you were asleep. He said he’d be over in the morning.”

 

“Good.” Strike huffed as he ripped into the packet of mouth wash.

 

“Not like that you idiot.” Robin rushed in behind him, remembering at the last minute that she probably shouldn’t shove her injured partner to the side.

 

“What?”

 

“Tear the corner like this, otherwise it’ll just spill everywhere.” She pulled the packet from his hand, tore a small hole in one corner and held it out to him. Strike took the mouth wash and, looking in the mirror, was reminded of his nephews drinking capri suns.

 

“Oh Fuck!”

 

“What?” Robin had pulled his elbow to the side to get a slightly better look at his face.

 

“Stings.” Strike’s eyes were squeezed shut and the air whistled through his teeth as he took one long breath in.

 

“Well it is disinfectant you knob head.” Nick had joined them in the bathroom with Ilsa not far behind.

 

“Piss off. Fuck, ‘at stings.” Robin rolled her eyes but pulled the almost empty packet away from him and threw it in the bin while Strike cursed and nursed his painful jaw in one hand. Looking in the mirror and seeing his swollen face he was reminded of the elephant man.

 

“It’s a bit like Christmas isn’t it, all of us waiting around at the top of the stairs in our pyjamas. Well, most of us in our pyjamas.” Nick eyed Strike’s creased clothing up and down, ignorant of the perplexed stares being thrown his way.

 

“He’s the reason ‘ose cats ‘r’ so weird.” Strike said.

 

“No, I’m not-

 

“-Our cats aren’t weird.”

 

Strike looked sheepishly between his friends while Robin hid her smile. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told him about all the times she’d found them snarling at unseen objects in the corners of the rooms.

 

“Better for the cats t’ be weird than the ‘ouse to be ‘aunted.” Strike supplied, trying to extricate himself from simply appearing to hate their cats.

 

“The house isn’t-“

 

“Who said the house was haunted?”

 

Ilsa and Nick simultaneously looked at Robin suspiciously.

 

“Uh, Cormoran your due some painkillers, I’ll just....”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Yep, great, I’ll be back in a minute.” Robin backed away and made a quick exit down the stairs.

 

“You two go back t’ bed. I’m fine.” Strike said as he made his way past them and back to his room.

 

“You sure?” Ilsa asked.

 

“Mm. Night.”

 

“Night.” Both Nick and Ilsa returned to their rooms and Strike quickly swapped his crumpled clothes for a white T-shirt and pair of shorts he found in the bag that Ilsa and Robin had packed for him and with his prosthetic thankfully removed once more he sat on the edge of the bed. _Bollox_ , he thought. He’d forgotten to open the window and the room felt stiflingly hot.

 

He took a deep breath and looked around the room. He had always found it strange to try and start the night again,it felt a bit like trying to fall asleep but wondering if it would happen or if you were still inside the dream.

 

Knowing the creaks of the stairs by heart by now, Strike schooled his features as Robin approached the top. She entered, with a glass of water and the grey pouch of liquid painkillers. He took them gratefully, the left side of his face felt hot and stretched and he regretted not asking her to get him some ice.

 

“At least I didn’ wake y’ up by breaking my jaw again on the coffee table.” Strike mumbled and Robin couldn’t help but laugh sadly. She watched his eyes as he took his medication and felt an indescribable feeling. Something felt right and comforting about being there, in that house, with the three of them. It felt precious to be awake with someone else in these silent hours, however dark they may be and she found herself hoping to always be someone they would call in such times.

 

“You should go t’ bed Rob’n. I’m alrigh’.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Mm.” His lips spread slightly in what he hoped she would recognize as a smile. She paused for a moment searching his face and then, with a smile of her own, she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the lovely comments/kudos. I think there will be about 2 chapters after this. :) 
> 
> (Also, let's all just casually not realise that I may have, perhaps, might have forgotten about Cormoran's chain-smoking habit. I mean, I know he'd probably have scaled up to Nick and Ilsa's chimney by now if he'd have had to but that's beside the point. K? Cool.) :)


	5. The Way She Shows Me I'm Hers and She is Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this chapter. My parents were visiting for a few days and then I decided that it was logical to write an epilogue to this story before actually finishing said story :/ On the plus side you'll have that to look forward to in the coming days I suspect :)

_Dyed black, greasy hair. Sunken eyes and grey skin. A ring catching the light from the lamp on Robin’s desk as the cricket bat swung and-_

 

Strike jerked awake before realising he’d fallen asleep. The room was still dark, the sky an inky blue now indicating he’d made it past midnight. The duvet was torn from the bed, hanging on only by one corner after being discarded in the night. His t-shirt had stuck to his back but his skin felt clammy. Strike looked to the bedside table for a glass of water but found none. He squinted towards the chest of drawers by the wall at the bottom of the bed. The light from the streetlamp outside cast a dim glow across the top of it and Strike saw a book and various bottles of what he assumed to be Robin’s toiletries. The light glinted off something and a flash of the cricket bat swung towards Strike.

 

With an unsteady heave he made himself vertical with a grunt. The room tipped slightly to one side and in the back of his mind Strike wondered if he should be concerned. Balancing on one leg he hopped towards the chest of drawers and immediately regretted it as the movement reverberated up into his jaw and skull.

 

“Shit!” Strike said, a little louder than the whisper he had intended.

 

His jaw still felt hot and stretched, due in no doubt to the swelling, but it felt like it had spread down his neck now and the deep throbbing was slowly making its way across his cheekbone and shooting around his skull. His stomach churned and a feverish heat flooded his cheeks and down his arms and legs.

 

Now that he was standing it was clear that the cylinder on the chest of drawers wasn’t a glass. With a sigh Strike sat on the end of the bed, pulled the duvet from the floor and wrapped it around himself. He was sure he made a pitying sight, a bruised and battered lump wrapped up like a burrito, but tiredness negated any importance of self-image. His eyes drifted shut but a creak from the doorway caused his head to shoot up.

 

“Sorry, only me.” Robin called from the darkness.

 

“Wha’?” Strike mumbled.

 

“I… sorry, I… there was a thump and…” Her shadow emerged into the room and Strike’s eyes drifted to the pyjamas she wore before quickly correcting themselves.

 

“I ’s jus’…” His voice trailed off and the silence took on a charged awkwardness as their eyes met.

 

“Sleep usually comes easier if you’re actually lying down and not perched on the end of the bed.” Robin offered with a smile.

 

“I… yeah.” Strike looked back towards the top of the bed with dread. He wanted to tell Robin that he was fine where he was and would gladly risk toppling over in the night if it meant he didn’t have to move again. He took a slow, deep breath as the nausea increased. _Death by vomit drowning_ sprung to mind and did nothing to calm his stomach.

 

Robin moved forward, took his arm and steadied a reluctant Strike as he pulled himself along the bed towards the pillow. Holding his arm through the duvet she was surprised at the heat that seemed to be radiating from the cocoon he had made himself. She noticed that the short movement back into bed had his breaths coming in short bursts and beads of sweat were running down his bruised face.

 

“Cormoran are you alright?”

 

He looked up at her and as the light cast a glow across his face she saw that his eyes were glazed.

 

“Shit!” Robin exclaimed and roughly pulled the duvet from around his shoulders. His t-shirt was drenched with sweat, yet he shuddered as the cool air of the room hit his skin. His eyelids had drooped and he was blinking slowly as he stared at her legs.

 

“Nick!” Robin bellowed, causing Strike to startle and a moment later the light in the hall came on, followed by the light in the room. Strike slammed his eyes shut and groaned.

 

“What? What’s wrong?” Nick had burst into the room, quickly followed by Ilsa who was pulling her glasses and dressing gown on.

 

“He’s burning up.” Robin looked to Nick with a panicked expression.

 

“M’ fin’. I’z warm ’n ‘ere.” Strike countered.

 

“It’s freezing in here Oggy.”

 

 _Oh_ , Strike thought.

 

Robin had crouched down in front of him and had one arm on his knee to steady herself. He closed his eyes at the touch and groaned as the pressure in his head increased. A burst of light assaulted his senses as rough fingers pried his eyes apart.

 

“F’ckin ‘ell!”

 

“Does the light hurt your eyes?” Nick’s voice called from somewhere beyond the bright white light that was blinding him.

 

“Yes, you knobhead.”

 

“Light sensitivity.” Nick said to himself.

 

“What’s wrong, is it his concussion?” Robin sounded anxious.

 

“Well it would make him sensitive to light but it doesn’t explain the fever.”

 

“Could he have gotten an infection after the surgery?” Ilsa’s voice came from behind Strike and he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Ilsa and Nick shared a look, both knowing about the infections that had plagued Cormoran after losing his leg.

 

“Jus’” Strike attempted to grab the duvet from Nick in order to wrap himself up in it.

 

“No! You need to cool down.” Nick could have laughed at the meagre attempt on Strike’s part to wrestle the duvet from him.

 

Strike felt the bed dip behind him as Ilsa left the room to get a wet cloth. He locked eyes with Robin and she moved her hand to the bed. Her cheeks were flushed and the light seemed to be glinting off her hair more intensely than usual. Strike’s fingers twitched, as if wanting to find hers on the bed. She looked past him and Strike sucked in a breath as the bed dipped behind him again and Robin rose, stretching an arm across the top of his shoulder to Ilsa behind him. Her neck was so close he inhaled a burst of her perfume and a strand of hair brushed his cheek. Strike closed his eyes and imagined another scene; the two of them sitting on a bench in Regent’s Park and the wind catching her hair.

 

A cold, damp cloth on his neck brought him back to the room and Robin was now sitting beside him holding the cloth to the back of his neck. It felt like heaven and Strike leaned slightly towards her. Ilsa was standing behind Nick who was watching him and tapping a torch against his chin, the source of the blinding light earlier Strike surmised.

 

“Anaest’e’tic.” Strike mumbled as Nick took his wrist.

 

“I know mate, but that was nearly two days ago now. I don’t think it’s that this time.”

 

“What?” Robin’s brow had furrowed as she looked at Nick in confusion.

 

“He usually has a bit of a reaction to anaesthetics. We started making bets with each other about it after he lost his leg, didn’t we Oggy?” Nick was watching his friend closely and trying to decide the next step.

 

“A pint.” Strike replied.

 

“For god’s sake Corm.” Ilsa huffed.

 

“No, he means he’s betting me a pint if it’s a reaction to the anaesthetic. Right Oggy?” Nick smiled.

 

“Mm.” Strike’s head bobbed slightly as he attempted to nod.

 

“Oh, right, never mind then.” Ilsa looked sheepish.

 

“Fevers often go undiagnosed.” Nick mused.

 

“See, fine.” Strike cradled his jaw with his hand and Nick bated it away. He peeled back the small bandage on the side of Strike’s face to get a look at the incision. It was red and bruised but showed no signs of infection or too much irritation Nick was happy to announce.

 

“It might just be the shock to your body, you haven’t exactly had a restful night.” Nick said.

 

“So, he’ll be okay?” Ilsa asked.

 

“I’ll sit up with him tonight, he’ll probably be right as rain in the morning.” Nick’s smile was restrained and he took Strike’s wrist again to check his pulse.

 

“I’ll stay with him.” Robin blurted out. Strike looked up at her through bleary eyes, the pull of sleep was getting stronger.

 

“I don’t mind Robin, you should get some sleep. You’ll probably be running around the office picking up the slack for this one anyway.” Nick replied.

 

“No, I… I won’t get back to sleep now anyway, it’ll be morning soon.” Robin’s hand got a little lighter on Strike’s neck and she felt her cheeks flush as Nick glanced towards Ilsa with the ghost of a smile.

 

“You’re sure?

 

“Call me if he gets worse. And keep that duvet off him.” Nick pulled the duvet once again from Strike.

 

“I will.” Robin smiled as she looked at Strike, who seemed to be on the verge of sleep.

 

Nick checked him over again quickly and then left Robin with a list of signs to look for. Ilsa kissed the top of Strike’s head as she left and Nick gently shut the door and turned off the light. Robin was overcome with the silence of the room. Only Strike’s steady breathing seemed to penetrate the calm.

 

“C’mon.” She gently took a hold of his arm.

 

“Hmm?” Strike replied without opening his eyes.

 

“You can’t sleep perched on the edge of the bed. Lie back towards me.” Strike did as he was told and Robin helped him to settle back into the pillows. She moved the cold cloth to his forehead and when Strike’s head rolled towards her she found herself leaning into his warmth. They sat light this, shoulder to shoulder, as the silent hours stretched on. Robin found herself dozing beside him but with a hand wrapped around his forearm. As the sky grew brighter and the room was illuminated Robin became aware of their reflection in the mirror on the other side of the room. She watched as it became clearer and clearer and imagined another time; them lying in bed on a Sunday morning, Robin reading the papers and drinking tea as Strike snoozed. As quickly as the scene was there it was gone again.

 

“Sorry.” Strike’s mumbled voice was a dull vibration against her shoulder.

 

“What?”

 

“You heard it.” His voice was hoarse but his temperature had reduced as the night had worn on.

 

“Heard what?”

 

“Before. M’… bad dreams.” Strike frowned.

 

“You don’t have to be sorry.” Robin replied gently and Strike looked at her hand wrapped around his arm. Everything about this moment felt sacred and like something he wanted to carry to another place. But he remembered who they were, to each other and to others and the part of him that valued his independence felt at war with the part of him that craved exactly this.

 

“You weren’t ashamed when blood was dribbling out of your mouth onto my hands. You shouldn’t be now.” Robin said firmly.

 

“It’s diff’nt.”

 

“Why?”

 

_Because it’s me? Because it’s all in my head and if I can’t control that what can I control?_

 

“You haven’t talked about what happened.” For one horrifying moment Strike thought Robin was about to instigate a counselling session.

 

“In the office. Do you remember who attacked you?” Robin’s face was close to his now and he steadied himself.

 

“No. Di’n’t get a look.”

 

“It’s just… they hit you head on with the cricket bat. You must have seen-“

 

“No.” Strike said firmly. Robin spent a long moment examining his face but years of military training had gifted him with an unbeatable poker face when needed.

 

“Wardle will be here in a few hours. He’ll want to know what you remember.”

 

“Concussion.” Strike sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. His jaw was throbbing in time with his heartbeat but his head was feeling clearer with the small amount of sleep he had gotten.

 

“You don’t have any theories?” Robin’s brow was furrowed now.

 

“My jaw’s killin’ me. Could you get m’ painkill’s?” Strike pulled himself up in the bed with a groan and Robin extricated herself from beside him. With one last look of concern and suspicion and what Strike hoped not to be a creeping sense of recognition she slowly left to get his medication.

 

As Robin’s shadow drifted from the room, her fading footsteps left Strike in silence before a flash of white in his periphery made him tense. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The smell of old paper and Chinese food seemed to drift towards him. The stale smell of cigarette smoke mingled with burnt coffee grounds and the distant notes of a floral perfume. Then a musky scent invaded and seemed to leach the light from the room. Chains jingled and lips smacked against each other. He was on the ground and then standing, behind his desk and then falling. The walls of the office seemed to morph and lose their shape and then strands of greasy black hair were falling in front of his face. The smell of old leather was smothering him and a gold fake tooth caught the light from the lamp on Robin’s desk. He could feel the ground beneath him.

 

“Not so hard now are you Sherlock.”

 

Whittaker was leaning down with his face inches from Strike’s. He seemed like a dark putrid mass leaning down from a height and Strike’s breath hitched as he saw the contorted black monster from his nightmares loom above him. He was using the cricket bat as a crutch.

 

“Tell Mummy dearest I said hello.” He smiled.

 

The room spun too fast for Strike’s eyes to keep up, his senses already frayed and overloaded. With one final shove to his chest Strike felt as though he was falling through the floor and would never stop.

 

“Cormoran? Cormoran!”

 

Strike bolted upright and saw Robin standing at the bottom of the bed with a glass of water and the liquid painkillers in her hands. He realised his chest was heaving as she rushed forward and he thought he saw the word _Nick_ on her lips.

 

“‘M fine.” Strike sounded so out of breath and frazzled that he could have laughed at his attempts to placate her.

 

“You’re-“

 

“‘M fine.” He repeated.

 

There was something at war in Robin’s mind, a suspicion that she hadn’t dared to explore and a duty to Strike that she felt drawn to above all else but struggled to verbalise. Something in his pained eyes, a milky colour in this early morning light, and the panicked expression she had seen on his face when she entered the room made her swallow the multitude of questions that were begging to be asked.

 

Robin smiled softly, sat beside him in the bed and gave him the medication. When he was finished she noticed his eyes were drawn to the dark corner of the room and Robin instinctively pulled his hand to her lap, wrapping it in hers and it was like this they sat for the next hour until Nick disturbed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this story and thank you so much for all of the lovely comments and the kudos :) A one-shot epilogue should be up relatively soon, I've got about two thirds of it written :)


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